


Days When the Rains Came

by HugeAlienPie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Lots of It, Bar Owner Derek Hale, College Student Stiles Stilinski, Derogatory Language, Established Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Food, Good Alpha Derek Hale, Mistaken Identity, Multi, Pre-Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Spark Danny Mahealani, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Trope Subversion/Inversion, Werewolf Hunters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-27 21:38:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17169872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: Allison and Stiles have rogue hunters on their tails. Derek has a bar and three overly helpful betas. Stiles and Allison are devising a fake dating scheme to throw off the hunters. Derek is never getting his quiet bar back.





	Days When the Rains Came

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_wordbutler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/gifts).



> Happy birthday, my excellent good friend!
> 
> Title is from Van Morrison's "Brown-Eyed Girl" and has very little to do with the story.
> 
>  **Warnings** : Slut-shaming and derogatory language; food

Derek turned the conversation over in his mind as he slipped away from the hunters' cabin—well, shack, really, just past the western edge of Hale territory. What he'd heard confused him, and he didn't like being confused.

"—fucking blood traitor whore—"

He knew the current Argent matriarch—at least, he'd met her. He'd known the instant she walked into his bar that she was an Argent. How could he not? With her wavy hair and shy, dimpled smile, she looked so much like Kate must've at that age that looking at her felt like a punch in the gut.

"—letting that fucking monster stick it in her—"

This was where Derek scratched his head. He'd also met the man in the hunters' pictures, the Argent's boyfriend. He was a skinny, flailing guy with amber eyes and wild brown hair that always looked like he was arriving straight from a good, hard fucking (not that Derek thought about him that way). Whatever the hell he was—and his scent wasn't entirely human—he _wasn't_ a werewolf. Werewolf adjacent, at most.

But the hunters thought he was, and they were gunning for him. (A small part of Derek felt embarrassed for the hunters: they had a couple dozen pictures, and the guy's eyes were visible in every one.) These assholes were squatting outside his territory, but the Argent and her boyfriend lived inside it, which made them his responsibility. He grinned wickedly as he made his way toward the Camaro. He might not excel at every aspect of being an alpha, but hunters he could handle.

*

They came in on enough Friday nights that Derek considered them regulars. They stuck in his mind because, one, _Argent_ (and, given the percentage of his clientele who were werewolves and other supernaturals, he was shocked that no one had complained about her being there), and, two, they were the only under-21s who took the time to chat up the staff and didn't then try to scam alcohol out of them. Stiles was on a first-name basis with the servers and could coax actual conversation out of Derek. Yet fake IDs had not been flashed; seductive looks had appeared from beneath no lowered lashes (not that Derek thought about Stiles's eyelashes). Between the Argent's junkie-level root beer cravings and the repulsive Sprite/grenadine/half-and-half invention Stiles guzzled by the quart, it was like no one had told them that questing after illicit booze was a responsibility of underage numbskull college students across America.

It was a Friday in early summer, the weather mild with a gentle breeze, and The Hollow was doing booming business. Derek watched as best he could for Stiles and the Argent and asked Boyd and Erica to do the same. Given that when they weren't mixing drinks, Erica and Boyd were making googly eyes at each other, he didn't hold much hope on that front.

During a lull, Derek looked for Stiles and the Argent. Their usual table at the front of the room sat empty. Mild annoyance settled in a headachy lump in his forehead. He sighed and checked the tiny dance floor at the opposite side of the bar. It didn't get much use, because Derek kept the jukebox volume at its lowest setting, in deference to supersensitive supernatural ears, but a few regulars were devoted to it. Sure enough, Stiles and the Argent were off to the side, and Derek snorted a laugh when he saw them.

The Argent danced with a studied grace common to hunters, the tightly-controlled lissomeness of a predator made, not born. Stiles had a jerking, twitching dance style that defied the laws of physics, the theory of gravitation, and the boundaries of personal space. He leapt and flailed to rhythms bearing little connection to the music coming from the jukebox. Derek found it mesmerizing, the way Stiles moved, and not in a mocking or "can't look away from the train wreck" way. Derek thought he was beautiful, simple as that. He was beautiful, and he was dating the Argent, and Derek was screwed.

Derek was on his way back from pulling pints for yet another group that'd ordered "Whatever's on tap, thanks" ( _we have eight fucking beers on tap; make a goddamned decision, assholes_ ) when Boyd shoved a bottle into his hands and skittered away. Derek started to yell at him, until he realized he was holding the grenadine. He mixed Stiles' monstrosity, poured the Argent a root beer, and riffled through his wallet for the B&B's business card. He carried the drinks to the end of the bar, set them in front of Stiles, and stuck the card between them.

"Thanks, dude," Stiles said as he slid a tip across the bar. He reached for the glasses, frowning when his gaze landed on the card. "Hey, you dropped a—"

"That's for you," Derek said gruffly.

Stiles set down his drink and dragged the card closer, squinting at it. His eyes widened comically, and his mouth dropped open. Derek looked at the bar. "Uh, Derek, dude, not that I'm not, like, a million percent flattered—and tempted, because I am a solid Kinsey 3 and shit, have you seen you?—but I like a guy to take me out a couple times before he whisks me away to a remote B&B."

Derek refrained from flicking Stiles' ear. "For you and your girlfriend, dipshit."

Stiles squinted at him. "I don't have a girlfriend? I don't _think_ I have a girlfriend. I would know, wouldn't I? I mean, maybe I wouldn't. I mean, there was a while there when Malia and I started dating and I didn't realize—"

"Stiles," Derek snapped. Stiles stopped talking, mouth slightly open in case he needed to start again. Stiles had dated _Malia_? Seriously, fuck the smallness of the Beacon County supernatural community. "You never shut up, do you?" Perversely, Stiles responded with a shrug. Derek directed his anger into thrusting a finger to where the Argent was craning her neck toward the bar. "Your girlfriend," he gritted out. "The Argent." At Stiles's startled look he added, "woman."

Stiles turned toward their table, as though double-checking he was still here with the same person. " _Allison_?" he asked incredulously. "Dude, Allison's my sister-in-law."

Something funny happened to the heartbeat there. Derek's eyes narrowed. "Really."

"She will be," Stiles amended, "as soon as my dumbass stepbrother gets off his furry ass and sets a date."

Derek took a long, slow breath. _The Argent_ —Allison— _isn't Stiles' girlfriend. That's all you can say for sure. Don't get ahead of yourself._ He forced his attention to the matter at hand. "I only see her here with you."

"Please," Stiles scoffed. "Like Scott would set foot in this place." His eyes widened as he scrambled on, "No, dude, I mean—nothing against your place; Scott doesn't go into _any_ bar or club. He has—" He waved his hand around. "He's sensitive to noise. And, um, smells and stuff?"

Pieces clicked into place in Derek's mind. A supernatural-heavy environment like The Hollow would be too much for a recently turned omega who hadn't learned how to control his senses. And having a family member who was a shifter, especially if they lived together, explained why Stiles, though human, smelled faintly of wolf but not like he was one.

Derek could guess what had happened. Word goes out through the hunter network that a scion of the Argent line is fucking a werewolf. A couple loose cannons come to town to hand out retribution. Allison's easy to find, and she's always with the same guy—one who, while not possessed of a were's usual grace and strength, brazenly flashes beta-gold eyes and doles out physical affection more generously than the average straight human male would be comfortable with. The werewolf boyfriend, obviously.

Except that it was just Stiles, human, male, not straight, and _not_ average, doing something nice for his sister-in-law-to-be. Something nice that put him in danger of getting killed by rogue hunters.

"Then maybe all three of you better head out there," Derek said. "Relax. Spend time together." He let his eyes flash a touch of red and used his claws to push the card toward Stiles. "Be safe."

Stiles let out a faint gasp, and his eyes widened. "Son of a bitch," he muttered. "Someone's after us?" He pulled out his phone and sent a text, presumably to Allison. He spun the card around on the countertop. "What's this place, then? Rustic werewolf lodge?"

"It's a legitimate bed and breakfast," Derek insisted. "But it caters to shifters who need a safe place to lie low. It's run by a small pack that's been friends with my family for generations." He smirked. "The crêpes are delicious."

Stiles snorted and tucked the card into the front pocket of his tight jeans. Derek didn't watch him do it.

Allison pushed up to the bar, scowling. "Seriously, Stiles, a text from the other side of the bar? Did they run out of grenadine?" Her gaze flicked with casual disinterest and lack of guile to Derek, who tried not to feel like puking.

Stiles waved his hand at Derek. "Alpha Hale here thinks we may be in trouble."

Derek blinked. He'd never formally introduced himself. Then again, he supposed he was deluding himself if he thought the Argent matriarch went _anywhere_ without knowing exactly what she was walking into. Maybe it wasn't coincidence, after all, that she and Stiles hung out here.

Allison threw her shoulders back and chin out. "We're always in trouble," she said, looking Derek in the eye, defiant and determined. "That's why we always have protection." In a move so coordinated Derek imagined them practicing it like the fight scenes in _West Side Story_ , Stiles and Allison flicked their arms so their wrists showed beyond their cuffs. Allison had an honest-to-god miniature crossbow mounted to a wide bracelet. Stiles's forearm was crowded with runic tattoos and other power markings. No wonder he smelled funny.

"Rogue hunters are after you."

They rolled their fucking eyes at that, like he'd said he'd found a mouse in the garage or they'd run out of milk. "No worries, dude," Stiles said, patting Derek's arm and pitching his voice just the wrong side of condescending. "We deal with rogue hunters all the time."

Derek cocked an unimpressed eyebrow and pulled his arm away. "Ones who think _you're_ her werewolf boyfriend?"

"What?" Stiles' flailed around on his bar stool. He would've knocked Allison flat on her ass if a lifetime of hunter training hadn't honed her reflexes. " _Me?_ Okay, have they _seen_ me? Who's dumb enough to look at me for more than fifteen seconds and think, 'Hey, yeah, totally a being of supernatural control and grace.'"

Derek half smiled and heard Boyd snort in agreement further down the bar.

"Obviously, they're misinformed," Allison said, straightening her shoulders and setting her features into determined lines. "I'll talk with them and—"

Derek wrapped his hand around Allison's wrist before she could get another word out. "They'll gut you where you stand."

"This is Argent territory," she insisted, head high, shoulders back. So damned fierce, the Argent women, and Derek ached at the thought of what he and Kate could've accomplished if she'd wanted alliance, not infiltration. "They'll have to respect that."

"The fuck they will." Derek had only been vaguely aware of Boyd sidling up beside him, but he was glad of his beta's voice at his ear. Allison clearly had more honor than sense, and Stiles seemed primed to fight at the slightest excuse. Having level-headed Boyd backing Derek's argument wouldn't sway them, but it might assuage his guilt when they turned up dead. "They're rogues. They don't follow the Argent Code or anyone else's."

"But... she's _Allison_ ," Stiles protested, not seeming to realize that was only a valid argument for three people in the world. "Look at those dimples. Who could hate those dimples?"

"For starters, the hunters who called her a blood-traitor whore," Derek snapped, "and who kept referring to you as a mutt."

Allison's expression turned grim. "All right," she said to Stiles, "I'll call Scott. Time for a strategy session." She looked at Derek with that unwavering gaze that all Argent matriarchs apparently shared. "Thank you for the tip-off, Alpha Hale."

Derek nodded and then, shocking himself, said, "You know where to find my pack, if you need us. We're good fighters, and there's no love lost between us and _any_ hunter."

Stiles nodded grimly. Allison looked Derek dead in the eyes and said, "My aunt and grandfather were terrible people."

Derek stared at her, unsure what surprised him more: her use of the past tense, or the fact that she'd said anything at all. Her statement barely touched Derek's problems with the Argent clan. But it was more acknowledgement than he'd expected from any of them, and he found himself feeling genuinely grateful for this particular Argent. "Are they... dead?" he asked carefully.

"Yes," she said, expression hard and eyes harder.

"We made _really_ sure this time," Stiles added with the haunted look of having been around a time or two when they _hadn't_ made really sure.

Derek nodded. "And I'm sorry about Peter. The chaos he caused."

"Hey," Stiles said, putting his hand over Derek's wrist, "your uncle's mess isn't your fault."

Derek shrugged. "We didn't keep a close enough eye on him. After the fire, we put him in that facility and got on with our lives as best we could. He reminded us of things we didn't want to remember, so we mostly didn't visit or check in with his care team." He shuddered, thinking of the chaotic weekend when Peter had woken up. "And we all paid the price for that."

"We all did a lot of things we regret that weekend," Allison said quietly. "The best we can do is learn from our mistakes and keep going."

Derek wondered, briefly, what his life would've been like if he's met Stiles and Allison then. Considering the person he'd been at the time, probably a disaster.

*

They weren't a pack, no matter how you stretched the definition. One werewolf, one spark, one hunter, and, when she deigned to grace them with her presence, one banshee.

But they _worked_. Out of the wreckage left the last time the Hale-Argent feud blew up, the survivors had picked themselves up, dusted themselves off, and built a unit that somehow, time and again, fended off threats that came their way—and sometimes made a threat less likely to return. Not a pack, but a team. Maybe a family—and Stiles wasn't just saying that because most of them were, or would soon be, related to each other.

At this moment, though, Stiles wished they had a more traditional pack structure. And while he was at it, he wished they'd been doing this longer, that they had the innate sense of each other and the wordless communication he'd seen between Alpha Hale and his betas. Because they'd been arguing for an hour, and a solution to their hunter problem continued to elude them.

"I say we kill them," Stiles said.

From his spot on the opposite couch, Dad pinched the bridge of his nose. "And I wish you _wouldn't_ say it in front of me."

"Fine, _you_ deal with them," Stiles snapped. His head felt like a band of pressure that tightened with every word.

"They haven't committed any crimes," Dad said.

"They're threatening to _kill us_ , Noah," Allison said tightly.

"But they haven't _done_ anything. And 'Alpha Hale says so' won't cut it as evidence of a crime being planned."

Stiles swallowed a scream. They hadn't wanted Dad and Melissa here, for several obvious reasons. But Scott had been with them when he'd taken Allison's call, and Scott couldn't lie to save his sorry wolfy butt, and they'd invited themselves along.

Stiles loved his dad more than anyone in the world, but cop mentality was baked down to the man's core. Even three years on from the hellscape weekend when Peter Hale bit Scott and Lydia and plunged the Delgado-Stilinskis into the supernatural, Dad refused to acknowledge that they sometimes had to work outside the law to stay alive. By his eighteenth birthday, Stiles had committed at least five acts that he should be in jail for. He would do them again in a heartbeat, because in they'd kept him or a member of his not-pack alive or out of long-term care. He didn't regret them. But each one had driven a wedge between himself and his dad, and he would regret _that_ for the rest of his life.

"Can you at least check into their guns?" Scott asked, ever the diplomat. "Or if they're trespassing? I doubt they own that shack they're staying in."

Allison's mouth set in a grim line. "It'll make us seem weak," she said. "Like the cops have to do our work for us. We have to send the message that you don't fuck with the Argents."

"This is our _job_ , Allison," Dad protested.

"I am the Argent matriarch," Allison said, sounding as sassy as she always did when she said that. "This is _my_ job. And if I want to date every werewolf in Beacon County, I _will_ , and no hunter, werewolf, or _anyone else_ can say a thing about it."

Scott burst into spontaneous applause. Stiles burst into giggles.

"You want to add something, Stiles?" Mel asked archly.

Stiles grinned, refusing to be cowed. "If the hunters are confused now, think what they'd be like if Ally _were_ dating every werewolf in Beacon County." He bolted upright in his chair. He stared at Allison.

Allison stared back. "Would it work?" she asked.

"It would distract them long enough to get another plan in place."

"Or get them mad enough to make a move we can nail them for."

"Want to let the rest of us in on your wonder-twin secret?" Mel asked.

Stiles turned. He grinned at Mel, sure his smile must look more than a little manic, and clapped Scott on the shoulder and said, "You guys are gonna _love_ this."

*

"No."

Isaac had assured Derek that crossing his arms made him look three times more intimidating than usual. The quickly-stifled wave of lust that rolled off Stiles suggested that it was having the wrong effect. Or maybe Stiles had a thing for being intimidated. Which was Stiles' problem. And definitely _not_ Derek's.

 _Derek's_ problem was Stiles and Allison standing across the counter proposing _the_ most absurd plan he'd ever heard. Including the one where his betas had told him that the old dive on McGovern was for sale, and he should buy it.

Derek's _other_ problem was those same betas, standing behind him and eagerly agreeing to Stiles and Allison's ridiculous plan. Erica looked downright gleeful, and Isaac was watching Allison with an entirely inappropriate hunger, considering she was someone else's fiancée. Derek looked in desperation at Boyd, who shrugged and threw an arm over Erica's shoulders. "Gotta learn to pick your battles, boss," he said with the barest hint of a smile, the asshole.

Derek clenched his jaw. He _was_ picking this battle. "What the hell do you think it's going to accomplish?"

"It" in this case was a scheme that only Stiles could've cooked up, though Allison had laid it out. As she explained it, since the rogue hunters in the woods were confused about the identity of her werewolf fiancé, she, Stiles, and Scott (the still-unseen _actual_ werewolf fiancé) wanted to increase their confusion.

"A series of dates with every werewolf you know who'll play along," she said. "Maybe a few humans in the mix to throw them off."

"Rotating between us," Stiles had added, which was when Erica had _squealed_ and Derek had realized he couldn't win this one—not that he intended to admit that, "to confuse them more."

Now, Allison was looking at Derek with that too-incisive gaze that Derek had seen on every Argent he'd met, like they could look at him for ten seconds and know everything about him. This was the first time he'd felt that gaze and _not_ feared that it preceded a wolfsbane bullet to the gut or an elaborate plan to seduce him for insider knowledge on how to kill his family.

"Cards on the table?" Allison said, and Derek nodded, mostly as a formality. She would say whatever she was thinking whether he wanted her to or not. "We want to send a strong message that this behavior is unacceptable in Argent territory. But Sheriff Stilinski being Stiles and Scott's dad ties our hands. We can't make the statement we want while he's looking over our shoulders. So we're trying to draw the hunters out. Force them to make the first move. Then whatever we do in return is self-defense." She shrugged and pursed her lips. Derek closed his eyes shut for a beat; he'd never seen her make such a _Kate_ expression before. "It's not ideal, but we make do with what we have."

"We want these assholes out of Beacon Hills," Stiles said, leaning against the counter and staring earnestly into Derek's eyes. "And we want to send a message to _all_ hunters that Allison's choice of partners is no one's business but hers."

"Fuck yeah, sister!" Erica crowed, leaning over the bar to high-five Allison.

"Plus," Stiles added, with a disturbing twinkle in his eyes that suggested he'd found one of Derek's weak spots (Derek _hated that_. He'd spent every waking moment since the fire building his armor. He'd thought he'd eliminated his weak spots. Stiles found them all), "if we do this with _your_ betas, at _your_ bar, it reinforces the idea of an alliance between the Argent family and the Hale pack. People on both sides will _hate_ that, but some of the more progressive hunter families have started to see the benefits of of cooperative relationships between hunters and supernaturals. I assume some supernatural folks feel the same way, or hunters wouldn't have anyone to cooperate _with_. Even without a formal alliance, a visibly friendly relationship strengthens both our positions."

Derek didn't _want_ a friendly relationship with the Argents or anyone associated with them. Unfortunately, Stiles was right. The Hale territory was, realistically, too large for an alpha and three bitten betas to hold. They'd run off or fought off several challengers right after Derek became alpha, but _barely_. Things had been quiet for a year or so, but that wouldn't last forever. Another pack or coven or clutch with a hunger for land and power would come along; one always did. Being able to imply that he could call on one of the Western world's oldest and most powerful hunter families in times of need would deter all but the most determined adversaries.

Derek groaned. Stiles had done it _again_. "This _only_ happens here," Derek said, putting as much alpha into his voice and posture as he could. "I don't want my betas going out alone with people being tracked by rogue hunters." He glared at his betas, who were, unfortunately, less impressed by his intimidation tactics. "You're not getting time off for this, so fit it around your work schedules."

Isaac saluted jauntily, and Erica shot off a too-chipper "Aye-aye, Captain!" Boyd nodded. At least the message had gotten through to _someone_.

Erica batted her eyes at Allison. "Now, when you say 'every werewolf who'll play along,' do you only mean the guys?"

Allison blinked at her. Then she grinned. "If you're offering, I'm open."

" _Awesome!_ " Erica grabbed Allison's wrist with one hand and Isaac's with the other and hauled them to the far end of the bar, towing Boyd along by the arm he still had around her shoulders. They pulled out their phones, presumably to coordinate schedules. That left Derek and Stiles with the illusion of privacy, though the betas could hear every word they said, if they chose to listen.

Stiles' eyes flickered across Derek's face. His gaze wasn't as assessing as Allison's, but Derek still fought not to squirm under the scrutiny. "How about you, Alpha Hale? When can we pencil you in for?"

Derek gave him a grin that was mostly fang. "Let's try the thirty-second of Never, between no way o'clock and fuck you thirty."

Stiles laughed and held up his hands. "I got it. Leave Alpha Hale out of it." He pulled his phone out of his pocket, took a half-step backward, and tapped the corner of the phone case on the bar. "Shame, though. I'm a fun date."

He sauntered off toward the other end of the bar, leaving Derek to sputter in his wake.

*

"Danny, Danny, Danny," Stiles said with a wistful sigh. "Why did we never date for real?"

Danny rolled his eyes and threw a rolled-up ball of naan at Stiles. "Because _I_ thought you were making fun me being gay, and _you_ thought I was Jackson's lackey."

"Ouch," Stiles said, clutching his heart dramatically, but he couldn't refute either assertion. He _hadn't_ been making fun of Danny for being gay, but he hadn't been particularly _nice_ , either, and he wasn't sure the difference would've mattered to Danny. And the thing about Jackson was all true. "This is nice, though, right?" he asked.

Danny smiled. "Yeah. This is nice." A furrow appeared between his eyebrows. "You know I'm in a relationship, though, right?"

"Oh, yeah, right," Stiles said instantly, though he _hadn't_ known. "But I thought... I don't know. We should hang out more. You, me, your boyfriend, whoever. Not a lot of queer guys around Beacon Hills."

Danny stared Fat him. "Where have you _been_? I'm dating _Mason_ —you know, Hewitt? Who went to school with us?"

Stiles blinked. He knew Mason. He... maybe knew Mason was into guys? Mason dating Danny was definitely new information. He took a drink to cover his lack of response.

"Jackson's bi."

Stiles spit out his drink.

Danny smirked. "And Scott and Isaac, judging by their dates with Allison and each other."

Stiles groaned. He didn't want to think about Scott and Allison's dates with Isaac.

"Also," Danny said, leaning forward and making his voice so quiet Stiles had to lean in, too, "the way Derek keeps staring at you when he thinks no one's looking, I'd say he's into guys. Or at least into you."

Stiles looked up fast, but he was too late. Derek was rubbing a cloth over a pint glass like his life literally depending on its cleanliness. This wasn't the first time Stiles had almost caught Derek looking—and Danny wasn't the first person to point it out. "No," Stiles said breezily, "he hates me. That's his 'I'm going to eat you alive' face—and not in the fun way."

Danny shook his head and dumped more rice onto his plate. "If you say so." He looked at Stiles and grinned. "For the record, though, super-aggressive werewolf sex can be _super_ hot."

At the bar, a glass shattered with great force. Stiles buried his face in his hands and wasn't sure whether he was laughing or crying.

*

Erica swooned against the bar. Literally _swooned._ Then she fanned herself with her hand. "Oh, _wow_ ," she said. "That Allison Argent sure knows how to show a girl a good time."

Derek gritted his teeth. Argents and a good time—he was far too familiar with that. He reminded himself, for what had to be the hundredth time tonight, that Allison wasn't her aunt, her grandfather, her mother, or even her father. Allison was a new generation of Argents, allegedly doing things differently. He was withholding judgment.

Erica snagged Boyd as he walked past. "Hey, babe," she said, smacking a loud, lipsticky kiss onto his cheek. "I hardly saw you tonight."

"Been busy," Boyd said. He grinned at Derek. "Fish and chips truck night is popular."

Derek scowled at Boyd, who huffed a quiet laugh into Erica's hair.

Developing relationships with local food trucks had been Boyd's suggestion. The Hollow didn't have a kitchen, and their previous food options had been popcorn, peanuts, or tortilla chips. But once this ridiculous dating scheme started, Boyd pointed out that a dive bar where you could eat dinner was a more believable date option than one without. And while Derek didn't _care_ whether these dates seemed believable, once Erica and Isaac started oh-so-subtly debating other places they could go, he had caved.

In less time than Derek would've thought possible, the betas had set up a rotating schedule of trucks to sit in the parking lot on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights. Derek suspected they'd been secretly planning this for a while. He couldn't deny that traffic in The Hollow had improved drastically on those nights. But he could barely stand the accumulation of smells the trucks were bringing with them, and he didn't understand how his betas could.

"I am _so_ glad I'm a werewolf," Erica said. "Otherwise my arteries would be screaming at me." She leaned her head against Boyd's shoulder. "How was your date with Stilinski last night?"

Boyd shrugged. "I only wanted to kill him twice."

"It's a Christmas miracle!" Erica cheered.

Derek leveled a flat stare at her. "It's June."

"It's a Summer Solstice miracle!" Erica cheered.

Boyd gave a rumbling laugh and pulled her in tighter. Derek went back to cleaning glassware. _Because it was his job._

Not because he was trying not to think about Boyd's "date" with Stiles. Not because he was thinking about how much fun they'd been having. Not because he was thinking about how much fun _everyone_ had on fake dates with Stiles. And _definitelyhe_ might have on a date with Stiles. That was absolutely not what was going on.

He flicked Boyd and Erica with his towel. "Closing time. Save the canoodling for later."

" _Canoodling_?" Erica shrieked with laughter. She disentangled herself from Boyd and grabbed a cleaning rag to start wiping down tables and putting up chairs, but Derek heard her laughing quietly to herself and repeating "canoodling!" under her breath every ten seconds.

Derek looked at Boyd. Boyd smiled sympathetically and picked up a tray of glassware for the dishwasher. "Sorry, Alpha Grandpa," he said before he disappeared into the back room.

Derek regretted so many things.

*

"So, Kira, how've you been?" Stiles asked as he tried to keep a wad of lettuce from tumbling out of his po'boy. "We never see you anymore."

Kira poked Stiles' arm with the handle end of her plastic fork. "Gee, sorry I haven't been interested in hanging out with my ex-boyfriend and his brother."

Stiles put his free hand up in surrender. "I mean, I get it, but you and I were friends before you and Scott started dating, and _while_ you were dating. I don't see why we have to give that up because he was dumb enough to let you go."

"Hey!" Kira said. "It was a mutual letting go. We were in a bad place, and we couldn't keep pretending that—anyway, you two still live with your parents, and Melissa hates me, so... yeah. Doesn't make me want to drop in, you know?"

"Are you kidding me? Mel loves you."

Kira took a particularly emphatic drink of her Coke. " _Loved_ me. Past tense. Since Scott and I broke up, she's been chilly every time I run into her."

Stiles winced. "Yeah, she's... protective of us. Especially Scott?" He frowned, considering. "She's been, uh, noticeably cooler toward Allison this time around. I'm hoping she cuts it out once they're married."

Kira squealed. "Oh my god, I _love_ weddings. Tell me everything they're planning! Are you in the wedding party? I mean, you _must_ be Scott's best man, right? Do you have a plus-one? Are you seeing anyone? Will I be invited? You tell Scott he better invite me. Do you know the woman Allison's with tonight, and is she seeing anyone?"

Stiles had barely been keeping up with Kira's ebullient wedding-babble, but the last one made him snort his drink into his hand. " _Malia_?" he sputtered.

Kira shrugged. "If that's her name, sure."

Stiles flopped in his seat and rubbed his face. "Malia Tate. She started at good ol' BHHS not long after you moved away. She and I dated for a hot minute, but we were hot messes, so we called it hot quits. She, uh... she's Peter Hale's daughter, biologically, if that influences your decision at all."

Kira made a noncommittal hand gesture. The Yukimuras hadn't lived in Beacon Hills long, so Kira had missed Peter's initial rampage that had plunged them into the supernatural. "Werewolf?"

"Coyote," Stiles said, "and probably listening to every word we're saying." He glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, Malia was staring at their table with a familiar hunger in her eyes. When she noticed him looking back, she grinned too widely and mouthed, " _give me her number_ " as she flashed a double thumbs-up at him. Allison was covering her face with one hand, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Stiles groaned and thumped his head against the padded back of the booth. "Okay, I will set you up _after_ we deal with the hunters. _We_ know these dates are fake, but it won't work if the people we're supposed to be dating are actively trying to hook up with other people at the same time. We want the hunters confused, not thinking we're a bunch of degenerates."

Kira made a clucking sound with her tongue. "Polyamory isn't degenerate, Stiles."

Stiles took a vicious bite of his sandwich, wishing it were the hunters' heads. "Tell that to the people trying to kill one of their own for dating a werewolf," he muttered.

"Yeah, any change with them?" Kira asked.

"Not a damned thing," Stiles griped, wiping his hands aggressively on his napkin. "They haven't made a move, but Derek and Scott say they're still around. Fuckers."

Kira squeezed his hand. "Well, at least you get fun dates out of it."

Stiles grinned. "Yeah. I guess we do."

*

Here was a phrase Derek never imagined he'd be thinking: _I wish those hunters would fucking_ **_do something_**.

The fake dating scheme had gotten out of control. Derek mentally kicked himself daily for agreeing to it. The few, low-key dates Allison and Stiles had sold him on had ballooned into a month of weekends crammed with them. His parking lot had food trucks three nights a week. He and Kira Yukimura and Danny Mahealani were _friends_ now.

Derek hadn't signed up for this.

Technically, Stiles was here with Mason and Allison with Isaac. With Mason came Danny, who was hanging out with Kira and waiting to take Mason on a real date once he and Stiles were done. Malia was at the table, too, but trying to act like she wasn't with them, because she and Kira were still feeling each other out. They had both told Derek all about it. This upset him very much.

Meanwhile, at this point every combination of Allison, Isaac, or Scott turned into Allison, Isaac, _and_ Scott, which Derek knew more about than he wanted to from Isaac. Allison had arrived with Lydia in tow, because they'd been... purse shopping? Lydia had called Jordan Parrish, of all people, because _they_ were a thing? He'd swung by after his shift ended—out of uniform, thank fuck—and Allison had banished him to Stiles' end of the table (or rather, the row of tables they'd pushed together, like this wasn't Saturday night at one of the most popular supernatural watering holes in Beacon County, thank you _ever_ so much, assholes), so that "you and Lyds Kama Sutra eye-fucking each other," according to Allison, who clearly spent too much time with Stiles, wouldn't give the game away.

But the game, as far as Derek could tell, was well and truly over. By this point, they looked more like a corporate softball team celebrating an end-of-season victory than like any number of people on any number of dates. Scott and Stiles kept shouting at each other from opposite ends of the group. Enforced distance had _not_ diminished Jordan and Lydia's eye-fucking. Kira and Erica (oh, when the fuck had she gone over there?) were building precarious towers out of creamer cups and sugar packets. And judging by the way Danny was squirming, Mason _excelled_ at sexting.

Derek wanted his quiet bar back.

Derek heard his dad's voice, clear as a bell, whisper _Be careful what you wish for_ when the door slammed open and the two rogue hunters stormed in, guns at the ready, followed by two more hunters they'd picked up somewhere. In seconds, they'd scanned the place and trained their guns on Allison and (Derek barely restrained his urge to roll his eyes) Stiles. A startled gasp ran through the crowd, but nobody panicked or bolted. It was one of the perks, Derek supposed, of running a bar where a lot of supernaturals hung out. It took a lot more than a couple hunters with rifles to scare them off—even if those rifles were full of wolfsbane bullets.

Boyd started toward them, claws and fangs out, but Derek put a hand on his chest. Boyd's displeased rumble vibrated Derek's palm, but he wanted to give Stiles and Allison a chance to handle it. And while they were waiting, Derek took a longer look at the hunters than he'd managed before, when he'd caught brief, shadowed, half-obscured glimpses through the cabin's grimy windows while trying not to be seen himself.

All four were men, or at least man-looking. Of the ones who'd been squatting in the cabin, one was short and lumpy, making Derek think of Elmer Fudd with more hair. The other was tall, green-eyed, and wild-haired, like a cockatiel and a white pine had a baby that liked sticking its fingers in electrical outlets.

Derek barely spared the other two a glance. They were in it for money or bloodthirst. If it was money, they'd bail as soon as things got rough. If it was love of killing, there would be no reasoning with them, and they weren't worth the bother.

"Give us the traitor and the monster, and no one gets hurt," Elmer Fudd said, apparently not caring that every shifter in the place could hear his lie.

A long, taut silence fell. Stiles and Allison glanced at each other. Derek bided his time.

The hunters pumped their guns. "Or we start shooting and see what we hit."

Stiles sighed, nodded at Allison, who nodded back, and stood up. "Those are funny words. Traitor. Monster." He clapped Scott on the shoulder. "My own brother has only seen the original Star Wars trilogy once, even though he knows they're my favorite movies."

Scott shrugged. "I don't think they're that good."

"Traitor," Stiles said fondly.

"Shut up," growled Cockapine.

"Meanwhile, our buddy Danny here says his favorite sandwich is SPAM with pineapple marmalade on a dinner roll. Which anyone can see is monstrous."

Mason made a disgusted face. Danny laughed and squeezed his hand. "You can take the boy out of Hawai'i…"

"Stop. _Talking_!" Elmer Fudd pointed his rifle at Stiles' face. Derek itched to move, but he knew the rules. In a fight between hunters and supernaturals, supernaturals could needle and cajole, but they could never make the first move—not if they hoped to defend against reprisals later. "All of you. Shut up and give us the wolf!"

Without a sound, ten people suddenly... _appeared_ out of the crowd. No one made a sound. They just found a way to... make themselves more apparent. Derek and his betas. Scott and Mason. And four of the regulars, who carefully set down their drinks and made themselves ready to fight whoever needed fighting.

"Which one?" Mason asked quietly.

"How about all of you?" said one of the backup hunters. Just here to kill things, then.

"Of course," Allison said, standing and moving to Stiles' side, "some would say violating the Code and hunting innocent people who've done _nothing_ to you or yours—that's what makes a traitor _and_ a monster."

"The Argent Code," Elmer Fudd sneered, spitting on the floor (asshole). "We fuck those we should be hunting. Are you coming with us or not?"

" _Not,_ " Stiles said.

"Fine with us," Cockapine said, lifting his gun.

"Before you start shooting," Stiles said. The hunters paused, grudgingly. "Did you know that sparks aren't nearly as rare as most people think? This guy I know has made an _extensive_ study of these things. He estimates that four percent of the population has the potential to become a spark. Of course, of those, only like point four percent accomplish it. It requires believing in something—not God, but a... a cause, a concept— _really_ believing, in a way people not a lot of people do. But, you know, in a town the size of Beacon Hills, that's still five people.

"And the thing is, sparks are hard to spot. They don't have speed and grace like a werewolf. You'll never catch a glimpse of an unseen part of them out of the corner of your eye like a kitsune. They don't run hot like a hellhound or cold like a banshee. They could be anyone."

Christ, but Stiles was mesmerizing. The cadence of his voice, the way his hands moved—this wasn't his usual uncontrolled flailing babble; he was choosing every word and gesture for maximum effect.

All four hunters were eating up every word. Derek could hear the increase in their heartbeats, smell the nerves threading through their scent. He saw their fingers slacken on the triggers and their eyes dart around, trying to figure out which five of the people standing loosely around the Hollow were sparks.

" _Ooorrr_ ," Stiles drawled, picking idly at his fingernail, "I might have made up those figures. There might _not_ be five sparks in Beacon Hills."

Looking put out by his role in the dramatics, Danny rose from his chair and moved to stand on Stiles' other side. With stage-worthy coordination, they flicked their fingers. Instantly, their fingertips started glowing; Stiles' bright orange, Danny's crystalline blue-green. "There might only be two," Danny said.

The hunters snapped their guns back up, pointed straight at Danny and Stiles. They wouldn't hesitate this time.

Faster than he could blink, light shot out of Stiles' and Danny's hands. Stiles' was like an uncurling whip of fire, Danny's like the thundering crash of an ocean wave. Derek was looking right at them, and when the light faded he couldn't see for a second, his eyes burning. When his vision cleared, the two main hunters were staring dumbfounded between the two sparks, their own empty hands, and the damply smoldering wreckage of their rifles on the floor.

"I believe in my pack, motherfuckers," Stiles said, voice harsh and unyielding. "What do _you_ believe in?"

After that, things progressed more like Derek had expected.

The hunters snarled and leapt forward. Elmer and Cockapine had lost their guns, but they had their fists and weren't afraid to swing them. But at two against four, Stiles, Danny, Scott, and Mason made quick work of them.

The two in back raised their guns but couldn't get a shot off without endangering their companions. Allison punched one—the bloodthirsty one, wisely—in the face and grabbed the pistol out of his hand. He staggered but recovered quickly, growling and lunging at her. She cold-cocked him with his own gun, and he went down hard.

Jordan was cuffing Elmer and Cockapine and reading them their rights. He jerked his chin toward the guy on the floor. "I can take him."

Allison shook her head. "I know who this asshole is. He's got a nasty reputation for escaping jail and killing every cop he meets on the way out. I'm going to let my dad handle him."

Derek shuddered. He'd heard rumors about how Chris Argent "handled" hunters who'd broken the Code these days.

Allison still held the third hunter's pistol in her hands, and she leveled it at the last standing hunter. "How about you? You want to face my dad or take your chances with the cops?"

The hunter looked from Allison to his buddy on the floor, to the two in cuffs. " _Fuck this_ ," he said, turned on his heel, and bolted out of the bar.

Allison laughed and snorted, lowering the gun. Jordan shook his head, clearly amused, and herded his prisoners none-too-gently out the front door.

"That's it?" Kira asked, confused. "You're letting him go?"

Erica grinned. "Cops are almost here. Wild-eyed looking guy running away from the location they're headed toward? They'll scoop him right up."

Derek listened. He hadn't actively registered the approaching sirens, but sure enough, they sounded close. "Bar's closed!" Derek called. "Anyone who doesn't want to talk to the cops, now's a good time to slip out the back. You know the way. Thanks for sticking around."

With hardly a sound, half the crowd melted away. Some had bad history with cops in general, or the Beacon County Sheriff's Department in particular. Others just felt a general mistrust toward human law enforcement.

Derek's betas stayed, probably more out of desire to support their alpha than eagerness to deal with the cops. He threw an arm around Erica's shoulders, squeezed Boyd's neck, and ruffled Isaac's hair, delighting in the laughing protest that earned.

Of the "daters," they'd lost Danny, Mason, and Stiles. Allison had hauled the third hunter, who was starting to come to, to his feet. She'd bound his hands and was being none too careful in how she yanked him around. Derek's and Allison's gazes met. She nodded once. "Thank you for your assistance, Alpha Hale," she said formally.

Derek nodded back. "Matrone Argent," he replied, dredging the French word out of who-knew-what dusty corner of his mind.

She gave a startled smile. "Yeah, okay," she said, "I get it now. Good luck with that." And with that cryptic farewell, she dragged her increasingly restive prisoner toward the back door.

Sheriff Stilinski pushed open the front door almost the instant the back door closed behind Allison, which made Derek wonder if Jordan had been delaying him long enough for her to make her exit. The sheriff shook Derek's hand, asked for the general outline of the night's events, and then looked around at the people left in the bar.

"Hey, Scott," he said fondly.

"Hey, Noah," Scott said easily, giving his stepfather a hug despite the gravity of the situation. "We've mostly taken care of things."

"I see that." the sheriff looked again at the people closest to Scott and Derek. "Well, this is like high school all over again." He raised an eyebrow. "Allison?"

"Not around tonight," he said without a twitch.

"Mmm-hmm," the sheriff hummed. "We'll see about that later." He raised his voice. "Attention, everyone. If you're here with Scott or Mr. Hale, we'll take your statement now. Everyone else, leave your contact info with one of the deputies, and we'll contact you to arrange a convenient time during the week to get your account of events." His eyes twinkled as he added, "Deputies will be posted at the front and back exits, so feel free to leave through whichever door is more convenient to you."

Derek laughed under his breath.

Sheriff Stilinski squeezed Scott's shoulder. "Let's start with you."

Scott rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I figured."

"Hale, you mind if I—" He gestured toward a booth in the front corner. It was a fair choice; relatively good lighting and privacy, but the one near the pool table would've been better, and Derek pointed it out. The sheriff shook his head. "I saw that one. Figured I'd let Stiles sleep. If he used a lot of magic tonight, he's out of it."

 _Stiles_? Derek thought he'd—but, no; the lump that Derek had taken for assholes leaving their coats on his pool table was an asshole sleeping on his pool table. Without thinking about why, Derek grabbed his own coat from behind the bar and draped it over Stiles like a blanket.

He ignored his betas' smirks as he turned around. "Start the closing schedule," he grumbled. He had no idea when the sheriff or his deputies would get to Derek or the betas; they didn't need to stand around idly until it happened.

The process went faster than Derek had expected. Jordan returned with Deputy Graeme, and they helped take statements. Derek felt bad for anyone who talked to Deputy Graeme. She was a good person and a good deputy, but she was human and unaware of the supernatural. Her interviewees would have to edit themselves heavily, which would them sound like they were hiding something. Derek wasn't surprised to see her eyeing them suspiciously.

They left Stiles for last. The sheriff took his statement, which couldn't be regulation, but the hell Derek was going to bring it up. He carefully stopped himself from listening, even at the end when the formal part of the interview had clearly ended and they were just talking, father to son. The conversation looked intense and unpleasant.

After the sheriff hurried out, throwing Derek an unwarranted glare as he went, Derek ambled toward Stiles, thinking about how Sheriff Stilinski had made his son give a formal police statement while sitting on the Hollow's ratty old pool table. That seemed like a good indication of how things stood between them.

"Okay?" Derek asked as he approached. He stood in front of Stiles with his hands jammed in his jeans pockets so he wouldn't reach out and touch.

Stiles grimaced. "Officially, sure. He knows I did something he wouldn't approve of, but unless one of the hunters sings, he can't do anything to me."

Derek's eyebrows jumped up. "Would they?"

Stiles shrugged. "Hard to say. If they do, things might get tenser with Dad. But the official position of the Beacon County Sheriff's Office is to deny the existence of the supernatural. So if either hunters complain about how two sparks in a bar used magic to melt their guns, the deputies will tell them to sleep it off."

"But it's done, right?" Not like it mattered in the long run. As long as supernaturals existed, so would hunters. As long as hunters existed, some would believe that a supernatural's mere existence justified their death, no matter how peacefully they lived their life.

Stiles looked at him shrewdly. "Yeah, sure. Wrongdoers thwarted, innocents protected, truth, justice, and the American way. And, hey," he added, giving Derek's shoulder a bro-y punch and hissing when it hurt his fist far more than Derek's shoulder, "no more fake dates in your bar. You gotta be happy about that."

"Sure am," Derek said, grateful that Stiles couldn't hear his heartbeat.

"It's still a shame you didn't join us," Stiles said. "I would've fake-dated the shit outta you."

Derek and Stiles, they got it. Once your life was wound up in the supernatural, it was altered irrevocably. Hunters went rogue. Omegas went feral. Humans in your life didn't understand. People called you monsters and killed you with impunity because the law mostly didn't know you existed.

But also, you ran with your pack under the full moon. A newly turned omega learned to handle on his abilities and accept being a werewolf as a gift instead of a curse. Spark magic hummed through the air, fiercer than fire, stronger than the sea.

Every once in a great while, you _did_ thwart wrongdoers and protect innocents. And when that happened, Derek thought, maybe you had to celebrate.

Derek looked Stiles in the eyes and said, "I'd rather take you on a real date."

Stiles fell off the pool table.

When he popped up, straightening his sleeves and trying to look like he'd done exactly what he meant to, he looked suspiciously at Derek. "For real? Like, for _real_ -real?" Derek raised his eyebrows. " _You,_ Derek Hale, alpha werewolf and successful business-owner, want to date _me_ , Stiles Stilinski, half-trained spark and college sophomore?"

"I find your ethereal grace irresistible," Derek said, deadpan.

"Oh, come here, you," Stiles said with a laugh. He grabbed Derek by the shirt and reeled him in for a kiss.

Stiles' lips against Derek's were soft and controlled. His hands against Derek's jaw were huge and warm. Derek hooked his fingers through Stiles' belt loops and dragged him closer. Derek tilted his head for a better angle, and the sound Stiles made shot straight down his spine.

"All right," Stiles gasped when they broke apart. "All right. We got this. I'm gonna real-date the _shit_ outta you."

"Yeah?" Derek swallowed. Having Stiles' heat and scent this close was heady. Thinking was hard. "You pick the place. I'll be there."

"How about here? Here's nice. Next Friday is taco truck night."

Derek's body flooded with warmth. Most humans craved novelty, the adventure of the unknown. After practically living in this bar for the past four weekends, Stiles must want a change. But Derek, as a born werewolf, sought the comfortable. The familiar. The grounding scent of pack and the soothing bustle of the bar. Derek turned his face away, but he'd probably been too late to keep Stiles from seeing his overwhelming gratitude. "You sure about that?" Derek asked roughly. "Tacos on a first date?"

Stiles laughed. He put gentle fingertips to Derek's jaw and turned his face in for another kiss. "Yeah, man. I mean, no matter how much of a mess I make of myself over tacos, I feel good about this. Don't you?"

Optimism wasn't Derek's strongest suit. But maybe, this once, a bit of hope wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. Derek threaded his fingers through Stiles' and smiled. "Yeah," he said. "I do."

**Author's Note:**

> I started this literally years ago, when I started watching TW. Then the plot got too convoluted to see a way out of. Then the _show's_ plot got too convoluted to see a way out of. Then I shared several unfinished fics with the_wordbutler, and she said this was the one she wanted to see completed. And that's how I ~~won the Congressional Medal of Honor~~ finished the fic.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Please leave kudos and comments if you feel called to.
> 
> If anyone's still around the post-apocalyptic wasteland that is tumblr, [so am I](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com)!


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